


The Heir & The Groundskeeper: A Ghost Story

by emmbrancsxx0



Series: A Ghost Story [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: College | University Student Dean Winchester, Ghost Castiel (Supernatural), Halloween, Happy Ending, Haunted Houses, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Suicide, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: On a dare, Dean spends the night in an old house supposedly haunted by the ghost of a man awaiting the return of his lost love. Once inside, the place - and one certain dark-haired man in a 19th-century photograph - seem awfully familiar. But that’s impossible, right?
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: A Ghost Story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104971
Comments: 147
Kudos: 504





	The Heir & The Groundskeeper: A Ghost Story

**Author's Note:**

> Reblog-able tumblr post [here](https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/631896734447075328/the-heir-the-groundskeeper-a-ghost-story).

It’s not that Dean didn’t believe in ghosts. He believed there was _something_. Maybe a time loop or some parallel universe bullshit. He didn’t know; he wasn’t a scientist. Sure, he definitely believed in something - but the spirits of the dead? That was a little silly. (Besides, that suggested there was actually such thing as a soul, which Dean would rather not believe in because he’d _so_ be going to hell.)

So, on the day of their junior year when Charlie dared him to spend the night in the abandoned “haunted” mansion outside of town, Dean wasn’t scared. The only really worrisome thing was that the dilapidated place might fall down on his head at some point in the night. But his fellow college students had been sneaking inside to make out for decades, so he guessed he was safe.

Yeah, he was safe, despite the way Charlie tried to rile him up on drive over. Despite the stories she relayed from those horny twenty-somethings who all ran, terrified, from the house, claiming they saw the ghost that haunted the place. The ghost, according to Charlie, was some tragic figure - the twenty-three year old son of some lofty high-society family - who took his own life back in the 1800s after his lover - a groundskeeper - was banished when the affair was discovered. And, as the legend goes, the ghost now wanders the halls for eternity until his lost love returns.

Because, apparently, the dude had nothing better to do for all of eternity.

But, then again, Dean had never been in love before, so what did he know?

Charlie dropped Dean off outside the chain-bound gate in the tall, ivy-covered stone wall that enclosed the property. He disregarded the “private property: keep out” and “condemned structure” signs that the cops had put up and hopped the gate. He trekked up the driveway leading up the hill, hands fisted inside of the pockets of his leather jacket and shoulders haunched to protect himself - _from the cold_. Definitely the cold. Not the weird feeling he got in his stomach every time he drove past the house; not because, on one of those occasions, he was pretty sure he saw a light on inside; not because he often felt like the house was calling out to him. No, it was totally the cold.

The house sat on the top of the hill, its wooden face rotting and weather-beaten, moss and mold rife on the planks as nature attempted to reclaim it. The door was chained, too, so Dean went to one of the boarded up windows. He ignored the profanity graffitied onto the pine and pried the board off with his hands. Beneath it, the window was shattered, and he thought he’d be able to fit through it.

Dean looked over his shoulder, scowling at Charlie’s headlights still outside the gate. What, was she going to watch him all night? He had half a mind to call her and tell her to fuck off, but then he realized one of the stipulations of the dare was that he had to hand over his cell phone so he couldn’t “call Sam to get him to pick you up without me knowing, Dean!”

He settled for flipping her off instead.

As he climbed through the window, he heard her drive away, probably laughing.

Once inside, he brushed the dirt off his jacket and fished inside his pocket for the flashlight Charlie had so generously let him keep (after he convinced her that, if he tripped and fell into a hole in the floor because he couldn’t see a damn thing, she was paying his hospital bills). The tiny beam of light illuminated the dust particles floating through air. Dean pointed the light around, checking out the white cloths that had been draped over the furniture. In the corner, a sheet covered what he knew was a grandfather clock from the size and shape of it. It loomed like a specter toward the back of the room. It looked like he was in some kind of parlor room, and Dean was honestly shocked that no one had tried to steal any of the furniture and sell it to some antique store for a pretty hefty chuck of change. He stowed the idea for later, because, sure, he was the best on campus at making the most realistic fake IDs, but that side hustle didn’t exactly pay all the bills.

He walked out of the room, paying no mind to the way the floorboards creaked under his boots with every step. He stood in a corridor, pointing his light left first. He figured, based on nothing, that way must have led to the kitchen and dining room. He turned right instead and ended up in the entrance room. It was giant: forty-foot ceilings with elaborate floral trim and gold molding, most of it cracked and chipped. A faded, ripped oriental carpet lined the room, leading up the enormous staircase that connected to the mezzanine. The second level was lined with balustrades overlooking the downstairs. An ornate fireplace was on the other side of the room, a portrait with flaked paint hanging over it.

Dean held his flashlight on the man in the painting for a long second, trying to figure out where he’d seen him before. He was severe-looking bearded man with dark eyes. Try as he might, Dean couldn’t place him. All he could do was let his imagination run wild. He imagined the man, short but still somehow imposing and god-like, brisking down the stairs, on his way out to the carriage that would take him away, yet again, on another business trip. His bags were already packed and waiting. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye to his son, because this was such a common occurrence - and the boy would be fine, surrounded by all the staff he needed.

Dean shook the thought away, coming back to himself. He aimed his beam toward the stairs, because if he was going to spend the night there, he might as well do some exploring.

Just as he was about to set off, there was a clattering somewhere behind him. Dean whipped around, flashlight first, his heart in his throat. He held his breath as he peered down the dark corridor. There was no other sound. No one came into view. Dean reasoned this place must have been infested with rats, and he vowed not to touch anything with that thought in mind.

The excuse sat like a cold stone in his gut, but he promptly ignored it and moved toward the staircase. He toed at the first step until he was sure it wouldn’t collapse under his weight. The mezzanine led to two other staircases, one leading to the right wing of the house, and the other to the left wing. He picked the left wing, climbing up to the second level, the stairs shifting loudly underfoot.

Once upstairs, he looked over the railing at the floor below. He imagined this place in its heyday - with the staff rushing to and fro, intent on their chores, always busy and bustling. He imagined the grand doors opening up, cutting a sliver of summer sunlight across the carpet, a man walking in, wiping sweat and dirt from his brow. There was soil under his fingernails, on his clothes. He looked up, like a magnetic pull, at the place Dean was standing now - but he wasn’t looking at Dean. There was another man staring back at him, the barest of smiles on his face, one he desperately tried to bite down. The groundskeeper gave a lopsided smirk and a wink before turning left and heading for the kitchen for something to eat.

Dean imagined it so clearly, but the faces were a blur.

He blinked the images away and wandered down the upstairs corridor. There was a small hole in the floor, and Dean had to step over it to continue on. He didn’t really know where he was going. He guessed he was just passing time. But there was something about this place, this hallway, this house, that made him shudder with deja vu. But he knew for a fact he’d never been in this house before, and besides, it probably looked like any other old-timey house he’d seen in horror movies or that time Charlie made him watch _Pride and Prejudice_. (And that other time it was on TV and he just watched it again because he had nothing better to do, okay.)

The point was: all these old places looked the same, when you really got down to it.

He passed by a number of doors, some open, some hanging on their hinges, some closed and concealing the white-draped ghosts of four-poster beds and elaborate dressers inside. None of them interested him too much. He wanted to get to the room at the end of the hall. He didn’t really have a reason why - since it was probably just another bedroom - but something told him that was the room he’d seen the light coming from that one time. He wanted to check it out.

Up ahead, there was a hallway stand, the sheet that had been over it hanging by one corner, the rest of it pooling on the ground. When Dean reached it, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the items on top. There was an encyclopedia - outdated by at least a century - with dry, brittle pages. A leather bookmark was sticking out of it, so he flipped to that page, met with an entry about honeybees. Bored by that, Dean scanned the rest of the contents - a candle stand but no candle, a dusty vase that he picked up before remembering his no touching rule, and an oval picture frame that had fallen down on its face, hiding the photo inside.

And Dean figured he could renege on his no touching rule just this once. He picked up the frame and aimed his flashlight at the picture. It was a typical 19th-century photo - the ones that made the subject look like a ghost. A faded, sepia print of a man’s head and shoulders. He was staring off to the side, frowning. Again: a typical 19th-century photo, the ones that creep everyone out.

But, the thing was, Dean wasn’t creeped out. He couldn’t be. He stared hard at the image of the man, because he was _sure_ he’d seen this guy somewhere before. He had dark hair, tamed and flattened for the sake of the picture; and Dean imagined a mess of waves, erratic and wind-swept, curling just behind the ears. The man was frowning; but all Dean saw was the rare pinch of a shy smile, a ducked head, eyes shining. Eyes - dark in the photo - that he saw so clearly as blue.

Dean realized his mouth was hanging open. His heart was pulsing in his chest; his breath was coming out in stuttered bursts. He _knew_ this man - and it wasn’t just that he’d seen his picture somewhere before. He knew him. But he _couldn’t_ have.

At the end of the hall, a floorboard whined. The picture slipped from Dean’s hand, clattering down. Dean had gasped, quickly shining his light down the hall. “Who’s there?” he called, making his voice go as rough as he could to hide how unnerved - okay, shit-scared - this whole situation was making him. “Charlie, if that’s you, I swear to God...”

No response.

Dean really wished he had his cell phone so he could call Sam to pick him up without Charlie knowing, after all. Hell, he even considered walking home at this point. But he knew he’d never be able to sleep at night without getting to the room at the end of the hall.

So, with goosebumps lining his skin, with his breath trapped by the lump in his throat, with the constant muttered string of “it’s fine, everything’s fine, it’s just a stupid old house, Winchester, no need to be a little bitch about it,” Dean slowly paced down the hall.

The door of the bedroom was already open, the silver light of the waxing moon streaming in through the battered curtains and the large filthy windows. There was a bed against the far wall, a tattered canopy on top, cobwebs strung along the posters. Dean blinked, the image of staring up at that same canopy, whole and beautiful, curtained around the bed, flashed into his mind. He could almost feel the cushion at his back, the plush pillows cradling his head, the wild hair tickling his chin as someone rested their head on his chest in slumber. He blinked again, and there was a second - just one fleeting second - where he imagined someone ripping open the curtain - a stern, reproving face; the person sleeping on him startling awake.

Swallowing, Dean moved his flashlight along the chipped, decaying walls. Next to the bed was a side-table with a flower vase, but whatever had been inside had long since decayed to dust. There was a chair near the window, shrouded in a sheet, a bookshelf and a wardrobe, also covered. There was a mirror standing in the corner of the room. Dean’s light passed over it, a blinding starburst against his darkened reflection.

But he wasn’t the only one standing in the mirror.

There was a face just over his shoulder - a man standing next to the bed, where no one had been standing just a moment ago.

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around, eyes bulging, and he definitely _did not_ shout like a little girl when the beam of light hit the man. “Sonofabitch!” he yelled, backpedaling.

The man seemed equally as spooked. His eyes were wide, mouth open, as he stared at Dean. He was dressed in a suit and a long overcoat, neither of which looked at all modern. And it took Dean a second to realize he was looking at the same man from the photograph in the hallway. The next thing Dean realized, with horror, was that the beam of his flashlight was going right through the man and hitting the wall behind him. He didn’t even have a shadow.

The two of them stared at each other for a long time. Dean had no idea how long. He was too busy freaking the fuck out. But it felt like hours.

And then, the man said, “Dean?”

Dean went cold - but, surprisingly, fear had very little to do with it. That weird sense of deja vu was back. He remembered that voice from somewhere. He remembered that voice saying his name like it belonged to him.

The man let out a wet breath. “It _is_ you.”

Dean’s limbs finally caught up with him. He stumbled back even further, trying to put some space between himself and the man. At the same time, he tried to tell himself this was all a prank. After all, it wasn’t too hard to photoshop a picture and place it somewhere. Charlie was probably just fucking with him - because she was evil. Maybe Sammy was even in on it, too.

Meanwhile, the man had stepped forward, coming closer to him. He was saying, “I wasn’t sure. I saw you walking up the drive but... And downstairs, but I couldn’t be certain. But - _ha_. Dean, it’s you. You - you came back. I was starting to think...”

The dude wouldn’t stop staring at Dean. He wasn’t even blinking.

Dean shook his head, licked his lips, tried to get himself under control. “Okay, this - Very funny.”

A vertical line formed on the bridge of the man’s nose. He squinted and tilted his head in a way that was so damn _familiar_.

“Did Charlie put you up to this? Huh? You’re what? An acting major?” That had to be it. Dean had probably seen the guy around campus. They looked about the same age; maybe they’d taken a pre-req class together freshman year or something. It wasn’t a big school. “Because, buddy, if she promised to pay you, she lied. Okay? She’s broke, trust me.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded strained.

The man’s frown deepened, and Dean didn’t know why he had the urge to flatten out the lines on his face with the pad of his thumb. “Charlie? I don’t know a Charlie.”

“Right. Sure,” Dean said dryly, pushing all his confidence into his tone. “Well, when you see her again, tell her she’s an asshole.”

The man gave a frustrated noise. “Dean, I have no idea what you’re - It’s _me_ , Dean. It’s Castiel.”

 _Castiel_. The name struck a chord in Dean’s chest, like a song from childhood that he’d forgotten existed, but then one day it came on the radio and he inexplicably remembered every word.

Castiel sighed, shoulders sagging. “You don’t remember.” There was heartache in his voice. Part of Dean wanted to console him, and the other part told him this guy was a better actor than Dean had given him credit for.

“Okay,” Dean said, choosing to run with the latter despite the knot in his stomach. “Well, good luck making it to Hollywood. Really. You’re Oscar-material, pal.” He inched closer to the door, doing his damnedest to not break into a sprint and head directly for the exit.

He turned quickly when he was at the door, meaning to head out. But the guy was suddenly standing right in front of him, blocking the threshold. Dean was so beyond posturing now. He yelped, his flashlight falling from his grip.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel said urgently. He reached for Dean’s hand, and the touch connected before Dean could jerk away. Except, there was no touch. Castiel’s hand went right through Dean, leaving Dean’s hand numb and frigid, like he’d been touching snow without gloves on. The coldness ran down his skin, past his muscles, through his bones.

But Dean hardly noticed any of it.

He staggered back, flashes of memory flickering across his vision. He remembered this house in its prime, with busy staff all working to please their employer. He remembered tilling the garden, trimming the hedges, watching the flowers bloom. He remembered picking those flowers, bright red roses, making a bouquet out of them. He remembered taking them upstairs, down this hallway, to this room. He remembered Cas - his furrowed brow, tilted head, the rare gummy smile and laugh, his bright blue eyes. He remembered the fear in those eyes when Chuck found them in bed together. He remembered being thrown out onto the street with a railway ticket west. He remembered not going; remembered sneaking back into the house one night - up the stairs, down the corridor, to this room. And he remembered finding a body hanging from a beam in the ceiling, the ripped canopy from the bed used as a noose.

He remembered everything.

He brought his eyes back up, his gaze locking with the man in front of him.

“Cas?”

The anxiety on Cas’ face melted, relief tugging at the corners of his lips. “Dean,” he whispered, voice thick, and the lump in Dean’s throat only grew larger. Pressure was stinging behind his eyes. He lifted his hands, ghosting his fingertips against Cas’ cheeks - but there was nothing there. Nothing to touch. Just that same frigidness.

“You came back,” Cas marveled.

Dean gave a shaky breath. He thought back to the night he’d found Cas’ body. He hadn’t understood. He still didn’t. All he’d done was scream and rage and get pissed, and he wanted to do the same thing now. “I came back before,” he said. Cas blinked, surprised. “About a month after your dad kicked me out - when it was safe. I...” He’d planning on telling Cas to pack a bag so they could run away together. Obviously, that hadn’t gone to plan. “Cas, why the fuck would you -” He couldn’t finish that sentence, because he already knew the answer, and he wasn’t worth that. He wasn’t worth Cas’ life, and he definitely wasn’t worth over a century of Cas’ afterlife.

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.”

Dean’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He tried to nod, to tell Cas it was okay. All he said was, “You’re dead.”

Cas nodded. “For some time. I - I don’t know how long. It’s difficult to tell. But you’re... alive?”

Dean scoffed out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, guess so.” It didn’t make sense. About an hour ago, he didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t believe in a soul. And now he was expected to buy into both those things plus reincarnation? He’d lived a life - a life that wasn’t this one. And it was weird to think about, but it should have been weirder. Because, really, it felt like it was a story his mom told about something Dean did when he was four, from a time when he was too young to remember. It had still been him; it had still been his life. The memory was just foggy.

He ran his hand down his face, trying his best to remember. “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know,” Cas said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m here, and you’re here.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile fondly at that. He’d missed Cas so damn much and he hadn’t even known it. It didn’t seem real. How could he forget Cas? But he had, and it only drove the point home that he was alive and Cas was dead.

“But we’re not together,” he said, gesturing toward Cas. “I mean, I can’t even... I can’t even touch you.” He wanted that more than anything - to hold Cas, to kiss him, to remember what that was like. “How do I... Am I gonna have to die?” He didn’t know if he was ready for that. He wasn’t even out of college - and, sure, it’s not like he was going to grow up to cure cancer or win the Nobel Peace Prize - but _dying_? What about Sam? He couldn’t just leave his brother.

Either way, it was a moot point, because Cas took a charged step forward, looking like he was going to reach for Dean but remembered himself at the last second. “ _No_ , Dean!” he said, panicked. “Don’t - You can’t. I won’t let you.”

Dean almost rolled his eyes and said, _how are you gonna stop me, ghost boy?_ But he didn’t want to argue with Cas. And he wasn’t too crazy about dying, anyway. But he didn’t know how to fix this. “So, what?” he asked. “You’re Swayze and I’m Demi Moore?”

Cas opened his mouth unsurely, eyes flickering around the room like he was looking for an answer. “I...”

Dean dismissed it with a wave.

Cas let out a sigh. “All I wanted was for us to be together again, Dean. But... if that means you have to die.... Perhaps just seeing you is enough.” Dean didn’t know if it was enough for him. “You have to keep living.” Cas lifted up his palm, fingers curling upward. Dean wished he could hold his hand. Instead, he hovered his palm over Cas’, trying to align their fingertips. “Promise me, Dean.”

Dean bit down on his jaw and nodded. “What about you?”

“Well, I can’t leave the house. Believe me, I’ve tried. But maybe you could... visit?” He said it like Dean wasn’t thinking about packing a bag and moving in permanently.

Whatever the case, it was only a temporary fix. Cas would have to watch Dean get old and then die while he was stuck here, frozen in time. And maybe then it would be the two of them haunting this place for eternity, but that was far off. Still, it was something. For now.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. And then, “I hate this.”

Cas gave a breath of laughter. “Yeah, me too. But... I love you, Dean. That’s enough for me.”

Dean let his eyes slip closed, basking in the words. When he opened them again, catching the blue of Cas’, he brought his hand up to hover at the nape of Cas’ neck and took a step closer. “I dunno if this is gonna work,” he said, “but I’ll be damned if I don’t try it.”

He tilted his head, leaning in, and Cas did the same. Dean only expected to feel cold air - and he did, he did feel coldness. But it was solid. He broke the kiss, eyes wide. Cas seemed equally as surprised. “Did you feel that?”

Cas nodded vigorously.

Dean’s heart was slamming against his chest when they kissed again. After a few seconds, Cas began to feel warmer. Dean parted his lips, opening up to Cas, sighing into him when the kiss deepened.

Soon, there was the scratch of stubbled against Dean’s cheeks. His palm was pressed against warm skin on Cas’ neck, his fingers buried in the small hairs there. He could feel Cas’ body against him, Cas’ fists twisting at the front of Dean’s shirt, tugging him in closer. He breathed in Cas’ scent, sense memory filling him up, causing more memories from another life to hit him with blunt force.

When Dean broke away for air, Cas was panting, too. His cheeks were flushed red, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He took one hand off of Dean to flex his fingers, opening and closing his fist slowly. “I don’t understand.”

Dean didn’t understand either, but he figured he’d just add that one to the ever-growing list of shit he didn’t think was possible.

Hopefully, he touched two fingers to the pulse point on Cas’ throat, testing a theory. He sobbed out a laugh when he felt the rythmn beneath the skin. He brought his hand down, resting it on Cas’ chest over his heart.

Cas blanketed his palm over Dean’s, smiling back.

"Looks like you and me are walking out of here together, after all,” Dean said. He shrugged, pulling down his mouth in a frown. “You know - a hundred and fifty-ish years later, but never late than never.”

“I’d like that,” Cas said.

Dean’s mind was buzzing with possibilities. Cas could come live with him and Sam. They could build a life together, for real this time.

“Wait,” Cas said, brow lining like he’d just fully processed what Dean had said. “What year is it?”

“2020,” Dean told him, and he chuckled when Cas blanched. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you the ropes.” Cas seemed to settle at that. He nodded, and Dean was positively giddy. “God, wait till Charlie sees this.” She wasn’t gonna believe it when she came to pick Dean up in the morning and saw Cas accompanying him. Which was fair, because Dean hardly believed it himself.

But then he remembered that it was still night, and they were stuck there until sunrise. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Uh... We might have to hold off on the whole _running away and never looking back_ thing for another few hours. My, uh... my ride’s not coming back till morning.” It seemed pretty anticlimactic.

But Cas took it in stride. “Well,” he said, wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him in. “I suppose we’ll have to find a way to pass the time.”

Dean smiled against his lips. “I’m sure we can come up with a few things.”

**Author's Note:**

> i played myself because this was supposed to be a one off but now i want to write a whole 30k fic of their life together, cas navigating the 21st century, and dean coming to terms with his past life - complete with flashbacks to their life in the 1800s 👀
> 
>  **UPDATE:** so..... am gonna turn this into a larger fic. i've decided. when it's time, i'm going to post it as a separate fic on ao3 and then put the two posts into a series titled "A Ghost Story." hope to see you there. thanks to everyone for their support, and for saying you wanted a sequel/full fic. ask and you shall receive. (or don't ask and you'll still receive i don't give a fuck)
> 
>  **UPDATE UPDATE:** posting for the full fic will begin on January 31st, 2021. I put this "prologue" in a series titled "A Ghost Story." If you'd like, please subscribe to the series (not this ficlet) and then to the chapter fic once that's posted. Thanks!


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